Zygomatic
by belowthetamarack
Summary: In which Booth looses an argument, and he and Bones settle into domesticity.


**A/N: My first ever Bones fanfic! Just a quick domestic B&B oneshot.**

**Zygomatic**

He still brings her Thai food, entering her apartment at odd hours of the day and night, bearing paperwork and little white boxes of pad thai and spring rolls and his presence, a refuge from the terrifying, crippling loneliness that once gripped her life. They still bicker about their cases: about suspects and evidence and his gut and her science and bones and occupational markers and _does she have cause of death_ and _does he have identity_. He still rises from his seat in consternation when she sits there stubbornly and refuses to go on just a feeling. He still leans down into her face, far closer than is allowed for _just partners_ and _there is a line_, and tries, again and again, to convince her that some things are bigger than her science. So, no, _most _things, the important things, anyway, haven't really changed.

Except that now her apartment is his apartment too, and when they sit and eat Thai food she bounces a fair-haired chubby baby on her knee. There is no _just_ and no _line, _and he couldn't be happier. So when he groans and stands in frustration at her obstinacy, and leans way into her personal space, she'll meet him halfway, then pull away from the kiss with an "I'm still right" that makes him question whether it is possible to die of happiness (of course Bones would point out that it's not possible, but that's beside the point).

And so it is that life goes on, and so do Booth and Brennan, repeating the same circadian pattern day after day, yet somehow never descending into monotony. For each day there are new conflicts, new murders, new squabbles with the Bureau (who, even after Booth and Bones' seven-year unbroken perfect solve rate, _still_ feels the need to make periodic references to what the FBI refers to as the "reconciliation of the 'professional relationship' and the 'romantic relationship.'" Lucky for Booth and Bones, they have a certain FBI psychologist tucked safely into their back pocket). Regardless, these minutiae ensure that, despite appearances, Booth and Bones never have a dull day. And then, of course, there is Gemma as well; Gemma, who adds a whole new dimension to their symbiosis.

Gemma, whose very existence is the single greatest miracle of Booth's life (Bones doesn't believe in miracles). Gemma, who has Brennan's eyes and Booth's grin; Brennan's tenacity and Booth's mischievousness; who embodies all of their best qualities and even inherited some of their less-admirable features (like how Booth loves Bones's argumentativeness but hopes with a fierce passion that their next child doesn't inherit this particular allele). Gemma, who challenges them more than any murder investigation they have ever undertaken, and about whom Booth is currently engaged in a pernicious debate with his girlfriend.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Booth, please, be rational."

"I am rational! I've never been more rational! This is insane, Bones!"

"Booth, her cranial development has not yet reached the point at which she can retain complex information for long periods of time—"

"I don't care! I don't care, Bones. You can jibber-jabber all you want—"

"It's not jibber-jabber, Booth; it's simple biology. You can't ignore the science."

"I can and I will. I'm _not_ going to let my daughter watch her parents dissect dead bodies."

And that, Booth supposes, is that. For it does not matter how much science or practicality Brennan uses against him; he refuses to yield. You just can't take your baby to your lab of bones and murder, he reasons. It doesn't matter if she won't remember anything she sees at the Jeffersonian; that's just bad form. Booth chooses to ignore, of course, that little Vincent Hodgins' young life has been spent almost entirely in his mother's baby sling, peeking owlishly from between the folds of fabric at whatever fresh horror his parents must help to avenge. The Hodginses, Booth reasons, have always been a little bit odd, and their parenting decisions shouldn't dictate his and Bones's.

But, as she is wont to do, Brennan disagrees completely, arguing that her child would benefit from the constant exposure to superior intellect that is so abundant at the Jeffersonian, that any nanny or babysitter they would find would be ill-equipped to deal with their admittedly unpredictable schedules, and that yes, alright, she is just slightly uncomfortable with the idea of leaving her daughter with a stranger while she catches murderers. This last bit makes Booth's heart catch just a little, but his sentimentality extends only so far. "I won't," he repeats, as though saying it definitively enough will bring about Brennan's capitulation. Booth should have known better.

"You're being irrational and irritating. I find I do not desire your company at the moment. Please inform me when you are thinking clearly," she says, and with that she flounces out of the dining room, computer clutched to her chest, leaving Booth alone with Thai takeout and a very sleepy Gemma.

"What do you think, huh, baby?" he asks his daughter softly as he rises to dispose of their dinner. "You don't want to see dead people, do you?"

In his arms, Gemma fusses a little and emits a monologue of incomprehensible baby talk that Booth loves so much. He chuckles and shifts her in his arms and she clings to his neck, like she needs him. Booth loves this age, this little person who needs him to hold her and feed her and listen to her babble nonsense. As much as he loves Parker's brilliance and maturity, a part of him just misses _this, _the baby stage.

The baby stage comes to a screeching halt just as Booth is placing the last of the pad thai in the refrigerator. As he leans down, his face growing closer to Gemma's, his daughter's soft, fat hand unlatches itself from his neck to press against his cheek as she says, in the midst of a babble of nonsense, of baby talk, of jibber-jabber: "zygomatic".

Oh.

_Oh._

He would have missed it if he hadn't been so used to hearing it from Bones's mouth, usually _trauma to the zygomatic and sphenoid, _or else _zygomatic bone indicates an African-American male_. In the back of his mind he associates the word with a bone somewhere in the face, but he can't be more specific than that.

For a moment, Booth is frozen in the refrigerator, staring at Gemma like he has never seen her before, while the baby bounces in his arms and continues to babble happily. Then, Booth is in motion, calling his partner's name just as his head makes violent contact with the refrigerator door.

"Bone—OW! Bones! Get in here! Bones! Bones!"

From their bedroom, she calls, "Have you decided to be reasonable?" and walks in haughtily, but falters when she sees Booth's excitement.

"Booth? Is everything OK? Is the baby OK?"

"Fine, fine, Bones, listen." He is out of breath, his heart pounding as he listens to Gemma's voice. Bones is silent and pale, uncomforted by Booth's hurried assurances. Distantly, he feels her hand meet his arm and squeeze.

"Bones, she spoke. She said a word. She said her first word!" And then he is euphoric, forgetting their earlier argument, wrapping his arm firmly around Bones' waist and planting a kiss on her cheek—on her zygomatic bone.

Wait.

"Bones? Why did she just say that?"

Brennan, too, is all smiles and gaiety as she laughingly begins to explain the finer points of child development. "Booth, this is perfectly normal! In fact, she has begun to speak far before the average child," she laughs, that adorable, squinty chuckle. "This is excellent! Booth, this means that—"

"No, Bones, I know how this works; I've had a kid before. What I _mean_ is why is her first word 'zygomatic'?"

Brennan's smile widens. "Was it? Oh, it's probably from that game we play. You know, while she's getting dressed? 'Where is Gemma's frontal bone? Where is Gemma's zygomatic bone?'" She presses a finger dramatically to each point on the baby's face, eliciting squeals of delight from Gemma.

"So, you taught our daughter all the bones in her face before she could even speak? Our daughter's first word was a bone name. Oh my God, she's going to be a squint."

Bones's eyebrow creases, and she gently removes the baby from Booth's arms. "Booth? Are you angry? I don't understand. Why is this a bad thing?"

"Don't you see? You win. I can't argue that she shouldn't go with you to the lab now. She's going to be a squint anyway." And he sulks, childishly, he knows, but it doesn't matter. Booth hates losing, so he sits dejectedly in the nearest chair and stares sullenly as Brennan coos at Gemma.

Bones glances up from her baby to her partner. "Booth, please. Her first word most likely has no bearing on her future profession. It is simply a repetition of a sound she hears frequently."

Booth looks at Bones, her eyes wide, a smile flickering around her lips. He looks at the baby in her arms, whose smile is just like his, and who has her mother's sparkling expressive eyes, and who will be a squint, or an FBI agent, or anything in between, and who just said her first word.

And who, tomorrow, will be accompanying her mother to her lab, nestled tightly in a sling not unlike Angela's, who will see dead people and murder and horrors and who will somehow be OK, because her parents will not have it any other way.

But that's tomorrow. Because tonight, Gemma Booth watches as her father rises from a chair to kiss first her, then her mother. She listens as he says words that she can't yet understand: "Take her to the lab, Bones," and she feels the movement as her mother leans inter her father and whispers the words, "thank you".

No, Gemma doesn't understand, but in some deep recess of her mind she will remember that this moment, these fleeting moments of love and domesticity, these are the moments that make all the murder and the evil bearable. Someday, she will remember this moment as she watches her mother examine a dead body or her father arrest a murderer, and starts to lose faith, just a little. Someday, some far off day, Gemma will remember all the moments like this and she'll remember that at the end of the day, _this_ is what matters.

But tonight, for now, she simply nestles deeper in their arms as, above her, her parents press their zygomatic bones lightly against each other.


End file.
